XXXI. Emris

The rooftop's heat soaks through my knees as I crouch low, boots balanced on cracked concrete warmed by a punishing sun. Beneath me, the airstrip shimmers with heat mirages, like the world's about to melt right off the bones.

I shift my weight. Stay still too long, and your muscles forget how to move when it counts.

Steve steps into view.

He walks like he's already in mourning. Heavy shoulders, eyes scanning the horizon like he's waiting for a sniper's scope to catch the gleam of sun. He doesn't flinch at the sound of distant engines powering up, but I can see the way his jaw clenches. The man's trying to hold the whole damn world on his back again, and it's cracking him open one moral dilemma at a time.

I hate how much I understand how his mind works. That's the downside to reading and getting inside people's heads.

Sweat trickles down my spine beneath my suit, but I don't move. Don't blink. I watch him like prey. Assess the way his hands curl slightly, not fists, but ready. Always ready.

One wrong word, and this goes nuclear.

He walks toward the Quinjet like it's a funeral procession. The heat distorts the edges of his frame, warping him in and out of focus. Fitting, really. Captain America—always just a little bit unreachable, like a myth you're not sure is still real.

My fingers twitch.

A metallic whir signals a new arrival. I lean forward, just enough to catch sight of Tony as he descends, flanked by Rhodey in his War Machine armor. They land hard, authoritative, casting long shadows that look like spears across the landing pad.

Tony's voice cuts through the static of the base comms—too far to make out the words, but the rhythm is familiar. He's doing the thing again, talking fast, hands gesturing, trying to keep it light like this isn't life and death. I recognize the tremor beneath it. A sharpness in the way his shoulders set.

He's scared.

Rhodey's helmet retracts as he steps forward, doing what Tony can't—being the soldier. The enforcer. A line drawn in steel and consequence.

I exhale slowly, watching Steve. He doesn't move, but his eyes flick to the Quinjet, then back to Tony. He's already decided. I can read it in the way his weight shifts, subtle, like a boxer before the first punch. His spine is straight, rigid. Unbending.

Of course he's not going to surrender.

He's Captain fucking America. Righteous son of a bitch.

I roll my eyes, but my pulse is quickening. This is where it all goes to hell. I can feel it vibrating under my skin, that sick electricity before the storm breaks.

T'Challa jumps in and lands on the other side of Steve.

A door hisses open on the far side of the tarmac. Natasha. She walks out with her usual easy grace, like she belongs anywhere—even here, between gods and ghosts. Her hair's down, like always, eyes narrowed just slightly. Calculating.

She doesn't look up at me, but I know she knows I'm here. She always does.

I let my gaze linger on her for a second longer than necessary. Then, flick it back to Steve, who hasn't moved. But something has changed. Tension sharpens the air like a knife held just behind someone's back. No one's drawn weapons yet, but this is the point in the chess game where you realize the king's already cornered.

My heartbeat presses against my ribs, hot and uncomfortable. Every instinct I have is clawing at me—run, strike, vanish. But I don't. I hold. Like I was taught.

Be the shadow. Be the weapon. Be the insurance plan.

Tony gestures again. More urgent now. I can almost hear the sarcasm in his tone, the plea beneath it. Steve shakes his head once. Final. The kind of refusal that can't be taken back.

And I know—this is it.

Lines are drawn. Decisions made.

I reach for the knives at my hips, not to use. Not yet. Just to remember they're there.

Down below, no one's moved a muscle, but the world tilts like we're already falling.

I don't breathe.

And then, very quietly, the wind shifts.

The wind shifts again. This time, I move.

I spring forward, boots thudding once against the rooftop before I leap off. The wind roars in my ears as I flip midair, body twisting like a knife through silk. Air whips against my skin, the scent of hot metal and jet fuel rising fast. I spot the helicopter just below the rooftop.

I land hard on the helicopter's roof with a clang of vibrating steel. My knees absorb the shock, boots skidding half an inch before locking into place. The impact ripples through the hull, and down below, Steve's head jerks up.

I flash him a grin and wave.

"Heya, Cap."

He sighs, long-suffering, like I'm a headache he forgot to take meds for. "Emris."

I crouch, fingers tapping the warm metal beneath me. "You didn't invite me to the party. Kinda rude."

"You shouldn't be here."

"And yet, here I am." I take a seat on the helicopter's roof and cross one leg over the other. I sit back slightly as I watch Steve. "You know how this ends."

Steve crosses his arms. "You still working with Stark?"

"Depends," I say, flicking invisible lint off my sleeve. "You still acting like you carry the entire world on your shoulders?"

That earns a flare in his eyes. Not rage—just disappointment. That's worse. That's heavier.

"Stop arguing, you two," Tony remarks. "Can't you leave the kid alone, Rogers?"

"Already tried," Steve mutters.

"Hey, I'm making this interesting," I say, tossing a wink at Tony.

He rolls his eyes. "You're gonna make it expensive."

Then—it happens. The dam breaks.

Steve turns, jaw set. "You shouldn't have come, Tony."

"And you shouldn't have gone rogue, but here we are."

"This isn't about sides—"

"Oh, it never is, until you're on the losing one."

I glance between them, eyes narrowing as the temperature drops. This isn't just disagreement. This is years of unresolved crap unraveling into real-time disaster.

"You're doing this for Barnes," Tony says, voice dropping an octave.

Steve doesn't deny it.

Tony continues, "He blew up a U.N. building—killed people, Steve."

I glance at Tony. I know that Bucky didn't. I told Tony what I knew. He needs more evidence, I get it.

"I know him," Steve growls. "You don't."

"Oh, so we're back to the 'I know best' routine."

Their words crackle, angry electricity buzzing in the air. I stay out of it. This isn't my war. I'm just a landmine waiting for someone to step wrong.

And then Tony straightens, lifts his hands to the sides of his mouth, and shouts.

"...Underoos!"

For a second, nothing happens. Then, he zips in.

A blur of red and blue sails through the air like a missile dipped in glitter. Peter Parker—Spider-Man, the weird little prodigy—snatches Steve's shield mid-arc with a web-line, flips twice with too much unnecessary flair, and lands neatly on top of the helicopter roof, right next to me.

"Hey guys!" he says, waving like he's at a birthday party. "Uh, awesome to meet you! Captain America, huge fan. Sorry about this!"

Steve stares, stunned.

I blink once. "Well. That was something."

Peter shoots a glance at me, then straightens like he just realized I exist. "Oh! Right! You're—the Serpent?  That's what Tony told me your code name is. Um. Hi! I didn't know you'd be here. Wait, not that you're scary, just—intense. You have a vibe. A really, uh...intense vibe."

I raise a brow. "Breathe, kid."

He makes a wheezing noise, probably forgetting to exhale.

"Nice work though," I mutter, nodding at the shield. "Didn't even fall on your face."

"Thanks!" He beams. "I mean—I practice a lot. Like, every day. And I watched this one video that Tony had where you flipped that guy through a wall and I—wait, no, that probably sounds weird, I'm not, like, stalking you, just...respect, you know?"

I smirk. "Sure. Respect."

Peter flushes crimson behind the mask, I can't see it, but I know he is. Then he rubs the back of his neck. "Okay, I'm gonna stop talking now."

"Please do."

Meanwhile, Steve hasn't moved. He looks from Peter, to Tony, to me, and back to the empty space where his shield used to be. He looks betrayed. Like the world's crumbling around him.

And this—this is the moment. When the last bit of diplomacy snaps like brittle glass under a steel boot.

My stomach twists.

This is gonna get loud.

The tension is suffocating. I can feel it in the air, thick and heavy as Steve stands there, arms at his stomach from the webs Peter used on him, eyes locked on Tony. The heat from the runway radiates beneath me, but it feels like it's coming from inside, my chest tightening in a way I can't shake.

Tony's trying to reason with him, but we both know it's pointless. He's hoping for peace, but Steve's already made up his mind. I can tell. I've been around long enough to recognize when someone's dug in their heels, even if they're not showing it.

"You don't get it, Tony," Steve says, his voice steady but sharp. "The Accords split us. They broke the Avengers. You signed that damn thing, and then you brought her in."

It stings. His words cut deeper than I care to admit. I feel the heat rush to my cheeks, but I keep my face blank, my posture rigid. Keep the walls up. Don't let him see how much that hurts.

I lean slightly forward, my eyes scanning Steve for any sign of hesitation, any sign that maybe—just maybe—he's willing to listen to Tony. But there's nothing. No flicker of doubt in his gaze. His jaw is set, eyes cold, as if he's already made up his mind about all of us. About me.

"I didn't break anything," Tony snaps, frustration dripping from his voice, but there's something else there too—fear. Not of Steve, but of what this could mean for everything they've worked for. "I'm trying to keep you from tearing everything apart, Steve. But you keep pushing away everyone who's trying to help you."

I feel the tension between them, the words hanging in the air, thick with years of unresolved issues. The weight of the past bearing down on them, on all of us.

Tony steps forward, trying to get through to him. "You're gonna turn Barnes in, and then you're gonna come with us. It's not too late to make this right."

But Steve doesn't respond. He just stands there, eyes locked on the horizon. I sense the shift in the air—the way the temperature drops a few degrees, the way the silence stretches. He's made his decision. And I know that decision doesn't include us.

Steve raises his webbed hands up, holding them above his head.

Then the silence is broken by the unmistakable sound of an arrow slicing through the air. It strikes with a sharp slice, right through the webs on Steve's hands, freeing him. And before I can even blink, the arrow lands right next to me.

Clint Barton. Of course. He's somewhere here.

"Son of a—" I snap, turning instinctively toward the source.

Above, Barton salutes us with a smirk before vanishing behind the roof's edge. Of course it's Clint. I should've known the old man was still in the game. Or would at least come out of retirement for Steve.

I curse under my breath, the words barely escaping my lips as I shift my weight, instinctively going into a ready stance, prepared to move if this goes south.

I hear the faint sound of Tony's voice, sharp and cutting through the noise. "Clint, really?" But there's no room for sarcasm—he's too focused. There's no time for it. And he knows it. He's been here long enough to know the weight of a moment like this.

I'm about to say something else when I hear it—the unmistakable whoosh of Ant-Man growing larger. It's fast, chaotic, and I barely have time to react before the form of Scott Lang emerges from the shield.

"Great," I mutter. "This just got a lot more interesting."

Peter's caught off guard, but the moment doesn't last long. He's hit—hard—and sent sprawling. I move before I even think, racing toward him as his body soars into the air.

I'm not a superhero. But I'm not gonna let this kid get hurt. So I jump in.

I reach Peter just as the impact rattles his body, my arms catching him mid-fall, setting him on the helicopter's roof. He's dazed, but he's not out. Not yet.

"You good?" I mutter, my voice rough, but I can't help the flicker of worry that edges through. Not for him. But for everything. For this mess.

I push off the helicopter and flip down, landing next to Tony with a crunch of boots on cracked concrete. The force hits my knees, but I ride the impact, rolling with the weight and rising smoothly beside him.

"You okay?" he asks, breath clipped.

I flash him a grin that doesn't reach my eyes. "Never better."

Scott Lang, fully grown now, stands just across from us, handing Steve his shield. And I can see it. The shift. The chaos is escalating, the tension bubbling under the surface, ready to explode at any second.

I glance towards Steve, whose eyes are locked on Tony, his face grim and unreadable. And I know. This is only the beginning.

The chaos is deafening, the air thick with the sound of clashing metal, grunts, and the shrieks of webbing zipping through the air. My pulse is hammering in my ears, but I'm steady—more than steady. This is what I do. Fight. Survive.

Tony's voice cuts through the madness, calm and methodical. "I'm off to get Wanda," he says over the comms, "Rhodey, you've got Steve."

I don't bother responding. I just watch as Tony pivots and hovers off the ground, pushing through the air while Rhodey takes up the fight with Steve. It's not my problem for now. I've got more immediate threats.

"Can see Bucky and Sam," Rhodey continues, his tone clipped. "They're in the airport."

"Stay on Steve," Tony orders, already moving with purpose. "I'll handle this side of things."

My eyes scan the room, searching for my next target. And there they are—Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes, standing just on the other side of the terminal, like they're waiting for me. Bucky is calm, his face set in stone, but I can see the tension in his movements. Sam's always an unpredictable one—quick, agile, and always talking. But I've fought him before. He's not going to surprise me.

Before I can even process the thought, I catch the sight of T'Challa, his movements sleek and precise as he cuts through the group like a panther. He's zeroed in on Bucky with laser precision, and Steve follows behind him like a shadow.

"Barnes is mine," T'Challa says, his voice barely audible over the comms, but it's enough. It's a declaration, a promise.

Steve looks ready to challenge him, but there's a shift in the air. It's palpable. I can feel the tension between them, the unspoken words, the old grudges simmering beneath the surface. The way Steve hesitates, the edge in his voice when he speaks to T'Challa—it's clear that this is a fight waiting to happen.

But it's not my fight right now.

Tony's voice breaks through my thoughts again. "Emris, go with Peter. I need you with him."

I don't hesitate. I don't need to. Peter's already standing beside me, his eyes wide with that eager, dorky enthusiasm. "You ready?" he asks, like he's been waiting for me to say yes.

I don't say anything. I just give him a quick nod, and in an instant, he grabs me by the waist and swings us both into the air.

The world tilts as we ascend, the floor dropping away beneath us. Peter webs us through the chaos, the wind in my face, the motion blurring everything around us. He's quick, but there's still a hint of clumsiness in his swing, a little too much wildness for my taste. I wrap my arms tighter around him, my focus shifting to the targets above. Sam and Bucky are still in my line of sight, but we're about to crash right into the window.

The building is coming closer, and I brace myself for impact. I glance at Peter, his face twisted in concentration as he shoots another webline. But before I can process the feeling of impending danger, we slam through a window, the glass shattering around us like a thousand shards of ice.

I hit the ground hard, my legs buckling with the force of the impact. I roll, but I'm already on my feet, my hands steady, my breath steady, everything focused. No time to waste.

And there he is. Sam.

I don't hesitate. I don't even think about it. I launch myself at him, diving across the broken glass with a burst of speed that feels almost too easy. I slam into him with the force of a freight train, knocking the wind out of him as we both tumble to the floor in a heap.

"Hi, Birdy," I taunt, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I land on top of him.

His wings aren't out behind him, he tires to shake me off, but I don't give him the chance. I grab his arms, pinning them to the floor for a second, and take a moment to catch my breath.

"Seriously Emris?" Sam asks and I shrug my shoulders.

"Thought you'd be a little quicker than that," I tease, my lips curling into a smirk. He's fast, but not fast enough to catch me off guard.

Sam grunts beneath me, his chest rising and falling as he struggles, but it's not enough. I'm too quick, too focused. I push myself off of him, giving him just enough space to get up before I get back on the offensive. I'm moving before he even has a chance to react.

"You've gotten slow," I shoot at him, my voice a low taunt, but my eyes never leave him. He's ready to go again, but I'm already anticipating his every move. We've been here before, and I'm not letting up.

He smiles at me, "How hard do I have to hit you to make us not friends anymore?"

"We'll see, feather-brain," I reply, and Sam rolls his eyes.

Peter's still over there, trying to make himself useful, but Sam and I are the main event. For now.

I snap my gaze to Sam, who's scrambling to his feet, his wings behind him. He's quick, moving like a blur, trying to regain his footing. But my focus is split—half on him, half on Bucky, who's getting closer. I can feel his presence before I even see him, a magnetic pull that's hard to ignore.

But for now, Sam's the immediate threat. I've had enough of his cocky attitude. I launch forward with a burst of speed, my feet pounding the cracked airport floor. Sam meets me halfway, swinging his arm to strike—but I'm already anticipating it. I duck low and shoot out my legs, sweeping his feet out from under him. The momentum sends him tumbling backward, his wings flapping wildly as he tries to regain control.

I spring forward, bringing my knees up to slam into his chest as he tries to recover. We crash into the cold tile, his breath coming in ragged gasps as I hold him down. My hands grip his arms, and for a split second, we just stare at each other.

"Thought you'd be a little more graceful than that, Birdy," I taunt, the sarcasm dripping from my voice.

Sam's eyes narrow, his jaw tight with the effort to escape. He's got that fire in him, that never-give-up attitude. He kicks up hard, launching me off of him. I roll with the momentum, landing gracefully on my feet a few paces away.

"You're buying me food later to make up for this," He remarks.

Before Sam can fully stand, Peter's back in the mix, swinging in from above. He's got the webbing down, but there's something else about him, something more chaotic. He's still not as precise as he could be, but he's a quick learner.

"Move, kid," I growl, knowing this isn't the moment for him to get tangled up in this mess.

And then, just as I'm about to go in for another round with Sam, my eyes catch something—someone—else in my line of sight. Bucky.

He's closer now. I can feel the shift in the air. The pulse of tension between us. It's inevitable. We're going to have to fight.

I glance back at Peter, my voice low and sharp. "Stay out of this."

Peter shoots me a look, his wide eyes taking in the situation, but he doesn't argue. Instead, he bounces backward, using his webs to swing away from us as I turn my full attention to Bucky. I feel Sam fly over me and hear Peter's grunt, I can only assume they are fighting.

I turn, eyes locking with his, and we both pause for a moment, sizing each other up. The heat of his body radiates through the air between us, and I'm acutely aware of every muscle in his frame, the anger simmering beneath the surface, just waiting to explode. I know it as well as I know my own heartbeat—he wants to fight.

I want to fight, too.

But there's a tension hanging between us that's more than physical. It's like something deeper, something harder to explain. Maybe it's because we both know how this is going to end—neither of us is walking away without a scratch.

He doesn't hesitate. Neither do I.

I charge forward, fists swinging, the rhythm of the fight falling into place. Fast strikes, then sudden stillness, before we clash again. His left hook narrowly misses my face, grazing the edge of my cheek. I stagger back but don't lose momentum. I spring back into him, my body a blur of movement. I grab his wrist, twist it hard, and push him into the metal pillar next to us. The force of it makes the air thrum with pressure.

But he's already recovered, shrugging me off with brutal efficiency. His left arm comes up, and I can feel the weight of it before it even lands, his fist coming down toward my ribs. I dodge it just in time, but the wind from his punch still grazes my side, a reminder of how close I am to being overwhelmed. He's strong—too strong.

Bucky grabs me by the shoulders, pulling me into him. The heat of his body presses against mine, and for a split second, I'm uncomfortably aware of how close we are, how tangled in this fight we've become.

Then he stumbles.

I wrap my legs around his torso, using the momentum to throw him off balance. His body tilts forward, and I slam into him with a calculated move. My hands grab his face to look into my eyes, and it hits him—vertigo. I flood his mind with a surge of disorienting pressure, forcing his brain to lose its sense of balance.

It's like slow motion. I watch his eyes widen, his body jerking as he tries to fight against it. He stumbles, his steps faltering as he struggles to stay upright. The thrum of adrenaline pulses through me, and I use the moment of his disorientation to push harder. The impact of his stumble is like a slow, painful roll, and I feel every ounce of his frustration as he fights against the control.

His breath comes in sharp bursts, like he's trying to shake off the vertigo that's pulling him into chaos. The heat of his body is pressed against mine, but I don't care. All I care about is the fight.

"Not so easy now, is it?" I murmur, voice low, laced with a biting edge.

But before I can react, Sam's back in the game. I hear the sound of his boots pounding against the ground, and I know he's coming for me. He's not done yet, not by a long shot.

I push off Bucky, using the momentum to spring back just in time to see Peter get thrown across the floor, his back slamming into a pillar. Sam's wings flare behind him as he swoops in, grabbing Peter by the shoulders. Peter's webbing sticks to Sam's arm, but it doesn't slow him down.

"Let him go," I snap at Sam, but he doesn't listen.

Before I can do anything, Peter reacts, launching himself with a vicious kick that lands square on Sam's chest. The impact is so forceful that Sam stumbles backward, his wings sputtering for balance. For a moment, I almost think he's gone over the edge, but he catches himself at the last second.

Bucky's not distracted, though. He lunges at me, his body moving with that brutal precision I've come to expect from him. His fist flies at my face, but I duck under it, rolling with the motion. I get back to my feet, but he's already on me again.

We're equals. The pace of the fight is wild—one second, we're exchanging blows, the next, we're locked in a deadly dance, knowing exactly where the other will move before it happens. The air between us crackles with intensity.

But then, something unexpected happens.

Peter, in all his web-slinging glory, manages to get Sam pinned with webs to the glass edge. The lower level of the airport is just below. Peter throws himself forward to kick Sam over the edge, and Bucky leaves me.

Bucky doesn't hesitate. He dives after him, throwing himself right in front of Sam, taking the hit from Peter as they both go flying over the edge and hit the floor together.

I watch them go, my lips curling into a smirk as I stand there, letting the chaos settle. Peter webs them both, and then Sam's drone throws Peter outside.

"Idiots," I mutter under my breath, my voice sharp and almost fond despite the situation.

I don't rush. I never do.

Instead, I casually descend the escalator after them, ready for whatever comes next.

I step over the edge of the escalator, my boots landing with a soft thud against the airport floor. The chaos from the fight is still ringing in my ears, but it's quiet now. Too quiet. It's like the calm before a storm, and I don't trust it.

Sam and Bucky are both sprawled on the ground, tangled in webbing. Sam's grumbling, but I can hear the frustration in his voice. Bucky, as usual, is quiet—brooding, probably. His dark eyes follow me as I walk toward them, and I can practically feel the tension radiating off of him.

I don't stop, my eyes flicking between the two of them as I approach. Sam is the first to speak, his voice rough but still carrying that edge of challenge I'm used to.

"Why are you on Tony's side?" he asks, his gaze sharp.

I don't answer him right away. Instead, I let my boots click against the floor, my steps measured, deliberate. Why am I on Tony's side? I can feel the hesitation creep up on me, that tight knot in my chest that I'm so good at ignoring. But it's there, pressing at the edges of my mind, threatening to break through.

He's the only one who treats me like a person, well, other than Sam. But I won't say that out loud.

I look down at Sam, meeting his eyes for just a second before I turn away, my hand already going to the blade strapped to my thigh. A quick swipe, and the webbing binding him loosens, unraveling like string from a spool.

"Don't worry about it," I mutter, my voice colder than I intend.

Sam's eyes narrow at me, like he's expecting more. He's smart. He's not buying this act. But it doesn't matter. I'm not here to have a heart-to-heart.

I turn to Bucky, who's still on the floor, looking up at me with that cool, unflinching gaze of his. There's something about the way he watches me, like he's already anticipating what I'm going to do next. Like he knows me. Or at least, he thinks he does.

I step up to him, the heel of my boot clicking against the ground with every step. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't move. He's just there, tied up in webbing, with that dark look in his eyes.

He's not the type to beg for freedom. But that doesn't stop him from shooting me a challenging look.

"Not gonna cut me free?" he asks, his voice low, almost casual.

I smirk. God, I hate how smug he can be sometimes. But then again, I guess I get it. He's the Winter Soldier. He's the weapon. I was like that, too, and still am.

"Nope," I say, the words dripping with amusement. "I like seeing you tied up, Barnes."

The slight flicker in his eyes makes me pause, but I don't let it show. I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine.

I turn away before he can say anything else, walking past him with my head high, shoulders squared, trying to maintain that perfect facade. The tension in my chest still lingers, though. It won't go away. It never does.

But I push it down, bury it like I always do. Pretend it's not there.

I hear Sam mutter something under his breath, but I don't catch the words. I don't care.

I don't look back at either of them. Not even when I hear Bucky's frustrated grunt. I know they're still watching me, but it doesn't matter. I'm already in motion, leaving them behind, my mind focused on whatever comes next.

I'm fine.

I'm always fine.

I break through the doors, the wind hitting me in a cold rush. The outside air smells of gunpowder, metal, and burned rubber.

Tony's voice crackles in my earpiece.

"Hold tight. We're on our way."

The familiar hum of the suit's engines vibrates through the air, and within seconds, Tony and Natasha are swooping down, cutting through the sky like two shooting stars. I jump as they pass, my legs barely touching the ground before they pull me into the air.

We land, Tony's boot hitting the ground first, the thud of metal against concrete ringing in my ears. Natasha touches down lightly beside him. Me, on the other side. The three of us line up—Tony, Nat, T'Challa, Vision, Rhodey, Peter, and me—in front of Steve's team. It's like a western standoff, the tension thick in the air, like the ground beneath us is waiting for a spark.

I glance over at Steve's team—Cap, Sam, Wanda, Bucky, Scott, and Clint. They're all ready for the fight, eyes locked on us.

For a second, there's nothing but silence. The world seems to hold its breath. My muscles coil, my pulse hammering in my ears. I can almost hear the clock ticking down. Then, without warning, the standoff breaks.

A battle cry rips through the air, and suddenly, it's chaos.

The world goes into fast motion.

Cap charges first, his shield raised, cutting through the air with a sharp, metallic whistle. Natasha leaps, rolling to the side, and I'm already moving, dodging the incoming fire from Sam. My body is in sync with the rhythm of the fight, like I've done this a thousand times. I twist, duck, and weave through the air—every muscle, every nerve alive with purpose.

I can hear Bucky's grunts as he comes at me. It's a familiar sound, one I've heard before, though it never fails to make my blood simmer. He's fast, but so am I.

The moment we collide, it's like everything slows down. His fist comes at me, and I twist under it, feeling the air move as his arm barely misses my head. I feel the heat of his body next to mine, his breath on my skin. He's all power, all aggression, and I'm all precision. I don't fight like him. I don't use raw strength. I use what I know—his momentum, his anger.

I strike, my fist landing against his ribs, and I hear him grunt in pain. But he doesn't slow down. Instead, his arm snakes out, grabbing me by the waist, and before I can react, he slams me into the ground.

Pain blooms through my back, but I don't give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream. Instead, I twist, using my legs to wrap around his torso. I use the weight of his body to leverage a move, pushing him off balance.

Then, I use my powers as my eyes meet his.

Vertigo surges through the air, twisting the world around us. I see it in slow motion—Bucky's face contorting in confusion as the ground shifts beneath him. He stumbles, eyes widening as the ground tilts, and for a moment, he's a step behind. I press the advantage, slamming my elbow into his chest, pushing him back.

But it doesn't last long.

Scott, Ant-Man, suddenly grows, his massive form looming over us. He kicks out, and I don't have time to react before whatever he kicked comes barreling toward me. It hits me, hard. I go flying, my body thrown through the air with sickening speed. The world spins in a blur as I slam into a pole with a sickening crack. My breath leaves my lungs in a rush, and I groan, vision spinning, pain radiating through my body.

Time slows.

I can't focus on anything but the aching pain in my ribs and the sharp sting in my skull. The pole's cold steel bites into my side as I slide to the ground, my head throbbing, my body buzzing with the impact. But the fight doesn't stop, and neither can I. I push myself to my feet, barely steady, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me.

"Get up, Emris," I mutter under my breath, forcing my limbs to respond.

I shake my head, clearing the haze. The sounds of the battle reach me again—clashing metal, grunts of effort, explosions in the background.

I see Tony and Rhodey push Scott's massive form over as Peter finishes tying his lower half with webs. Scott falls toward the ground and as his body turns his huge hand hits peter and he goes flying.

Everything in me reacts in an instant.

I push off the ground with every ounce of strength I have left, my body hurtling toward Peter just as he goes flying. I try to catch him before he hits the ground, but the force of his fall is too much. We crash together, hitting the tarmac with a sickening thud. My body goes rigid with pain. I barely manage to roll, trying to cushion Peter's fall, but it's no use. We both hit the ground hard.

"Ugh," I grunt, pushing myself up as the ground tries to swallow me.

Tony's voice crackles in my ear, sharp and frantic. "Peter! Emris!"

I see Tony flying toward us, his eyes frantic, but my own focus is slipping. The world is tilting again. My vision is blurry at the edges, but I fight to keep it together.

Peter groans, I can see his face pale because his mask had shifted up. I hear Tony's heavy footsteps behind me. I wipe the blood from my lip, and try to focus on the task at hand.

This fight isn't over yet.

I can feel the heat of the battle still pulsing in my veins, but the crash is inevitable. The adrenaline fades fast, leaving me with a gnawing ache in every muscle and a dull throb in my skull. My body feels like it's been pulled apart and put back together again, but not properly.

Peter's still on the ground, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. I watch Tony kneel beside him, a scowl on his face as he inspects him for any serious injuries.

"Peter, what the hell was that? You're lucky you're still in one piece." Tony's voice is harsh, but there's something soft underneath—guilt, maybe?

Peter groans, rolling his neck. "It was just one hit, Mr. Stark. I'm fine."

Tony doesn't seem convinced. "You're lucky it didn't turn into something worse."

I mutter to myself, limping over, trying to keep my movements smooth despite the way my body protests.

"You alright kid? Nice catch."

"Peachy," I mutter under my breath, feeling every jolt of pain as my foot hits the ground. Tony shoots me a look, but I don't care. My limbs feel heavy, the strain of the fight dragging me down.

Peter's eyes flick to me as I approach. "Nice job out there," I say, my voice hoarse but with a hint of respect. It's a rare thing for me to offer praise, especially after something like that. But in the heat of the moment, we both did what needed to be done.

Peter sits up, rubbing his head. "You... you do talk, huh? More than two words."

I smirk, rolling my eyes. He's seriously out of it. "Shut it, Webs."

He grins, but I can tell he's still a little shaken up. His confidence is usually there, but right now, it's flickering in and out. I guess we all are.